


Even terrorists need their beauty sleep

by Yuno



Category: Gintama
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuno/pseuds/Yuno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots in the life of the Kiheitai, with a dash of TakaMui.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even terrorists need their beauty sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-ep215.

_The heat in the room was palpable. Kamui sat on the floor of the tatami room, one foot tucked in, the other propping up Takasugi’s chin. Takasugi smirked and pushed Kamui’s ankle aside._

_“You’ve got some nerve, putting your foot on my face.”_

_Kamui only grinned at this. Suddenly, Takasugi was reaching towards his waist, and before he knew it, his hand was looped around Kamui's sash, pulling him closer and closer and closer…_

_Kamui looped his arms around Takasugi, and Takasugi did the same. They crashed to the floor. In an instant, their bodies were entangled with one another, as if they were one entity. Kamui could see his own reflection in Takasugi’s olive green eyes. Why the hell were his cheeks so red…?_

Kamui woke with a start. His heart was pounding erratically.

_Whoa. What kind of a dream was that?_

Kamui rarely dreamed, but when he did, it was either, in the best case, blood and carnage and lots of food or, in the worst case, his own past. Not something that belonged in an ero-game. When had he learned what an ero-game was, anyway? Oh, yeah. Damn that lolicon Takechi.

Kamui flipped his body over and saw Takasugi’s sleeping figure. The samurai’s back was facing him, rising and falling in rhythmic intervals. Unlike his normal purple kimono dappled with golden butterflies, Takasugi wore a simple, indigo kimono in his sleep, tied with a cerulean blue sash at the waist that matched Kamui’s eyes. Takasugi seemed so peaceful in his sleep, completely different from the cold-blooded terrorist who wanted to overthrow the Bakufu and destroy the world. Kamui wished that he’d turn around so that he could see his sleeping face. He couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his lips at the thought.

Tentatively, Kamui began tracing the wrinkles and creases in Takasugi’s clothing, waiting for him to wake up from his touch and make the both of them some breakfast. Never mind that it was four in the morning.

“I’m awake, you know.”

Kamui couldn’t suppress the chuckle that escaped him. _Oh, why do samurai have to be so intriguing?_

“You’d better have a good explanation for sneaking into my room,” Takasugi continued without turning around.

“I was hungry.”

“There’s something called the refrigerator downstairs.”

“I wanted you to make me something.”

Takasugi sighed and finally turned to face him. “Go back to sleep.” His left eye was closed shut for good due to an old injury, but his good eye was glaring at him fiercely.

“All you have is microwaved food. And you know what happened the last time I tried using the microwave.”

Indeed, Takasugi remembered. Kamui’s tandoori chicken meal had literally exploded inside the microwave after being overheated for so long, and subsequently, with his meal ruined, he’d thrown the microwave out the window. Abuto and Bansai had been responsible for paying for a new microwave and window, respectively.

“There are snacks in the cupboard. Go find something.” Takasugi lay back on his futon and wrapped the blanket around him, indicating that it was time for Kamui to shut up and let the terrorist get his beauty sleep.

Kamui sighed. He stood up, padded downstairs as silently as a cat, and opened up the cupboard. He found music-note shaped cookies in assorted colors, plain crackers, instant ramen, and a box of giant Pocky labeled, “Mine! – Matako." Naturally, he grabbed the giant Pocky and walked back upstairs.

He’d been planning to share (sure, Kamui, sure) but had already finished all of it by the time he reached Takasugi’s room. Upon entering, he saw that the samurai had already gone back to sleep.

Now, that wasn’t very nice, leaving Kamui to starve to death all by himself. Kamui was completely useless in the kitchen (almost all Yato men were, Abuto being a rare exception). He couldn’t cook, and he bore some kind of animosity towards kitchen appliances. Hell, he couldn’t even make himself a sandwich. He could never fit as many condiments as he wanted inside the sandwich--he didn’t understand how some people could settle for just ham and cheese (without even a drop of sauce!), or even just two slices of bread! Oh, no, Kamui’s idea of a sandwich was much more evolved than that--if the sandwich did not have at least four kinds of meat, over twice as many kinds of vegetables, and more than eight slices of bread, then _it was not a goddamn sandwich_. Sadly, such a sandwich did not exist and was impossible to create on earth (y’know, gravity and all).

There had been a really great sandwich shop on the planet of the Yato before the Great Yato War had broken out and destroyed their entire planet. Kamui remembered eating the most delicious sandwich he’d ever tasted. It was the day of his mother’s birthday. It was a time when his family was still whole, when they could all eat and laugh and cry together, when his mother was still alive and his father was not always fighting monsters on some godforsaken planet three galaxies away, when he still had a little sister he could love with all his heart and share his food with.

But that was all gone.

And Kamui knew all too well that reminiscing about the past would not bring it back.

Kamui could only do four things--find a battlefield, fight, kill, leave a blood trail in his wake, and repeat the entire cycle all over again. It was his nature; it was an instinct that literally ran through his veins. No matter how many times he experienced it, he couldn’t get over the high of battle, how exhilarating it was to cut down his foes one after another. It didn’t matter if they were family members or comrades – whoever stood in his way of becoming the strongest was the enemy.

But right now, this freelance mercenary was about to collapse from hunger. Well, not really, but it sure felt like it. His stomach growled--and rest assured, a Yato’s stomach growling was three times louder than the average human. The noise was something between a gurgle and a foghorn. Every second that passed marked a new cavern opening up in Kamui’s stomach. Another rumble. The hole was spreading, widening, consuming him… Hey, was that green book with the torn pages over there edible?

“ALL RIGHT!” Takasugi bellowed. So he’d only been pretending to be asleep, as Kamui had suspected. “I’ll make you something!”

Grumbling something about teenagers and going to hell, Takasugi flipped off his blanket reluctantly, threw on a gray hakama, and practically stomped down the stairs to cook breakfast. Kamui followed him out, grinning all the way as he skipped down the stairs.

~

As usual, Bansai sat in his office doing paperwork. That was how he spent most of his mornings--surrounded by stacks and stacks of papers that needed his neat signature. Most of them concerned the Kiheitai, such as a request to built a new base of operations, alliance contracts, bills, taxes, etc. But many pertained to his other identity as a music producer named Tsunpo. Among various record contracts and musical compostion drafts, he had also taken on the task of designing Otsu’s new album cover. Sigh. Having a secret identity could be quite strenuous sometimes.

But lately, his workload had been reduced a bit after Abuto had allied with the Kiheitai, for Abuto took on a share of the paperwork as well. He dealt with nearly all of the food bills (due to Kamui, the very epitome of nonfrugalness) and paid for all the damages Kamui made too.

Now, it was quite uncharacteristic of Bansai to associate himself with an Amanto of any kind except for negotiation purposes, but he couldn’t help feeling a sort of empathy towards the Yato. They both had very demanding bosses, both of who were strong, charismatic leaders and had short fuses to boot.

Speaking of Abuto, he was sitting to the right of the long, wooden table at the moment, one hand clutching a piece of paper (the latest food bill, no doubt) and the other propping his forehead up as if he had a terrible migraine.

Poor guy. Bansai got the feeling that math wasn’t one of Abuto’s strong points.

He was about to offer his assistance when an indignant screech sounded from downstairs.

“WHO THE HELL TOOK MY POCKY?!”

He could’ve sworn that someone was giggling madly as well.


End file.
